


The Late Late Show

by MissEllaVation



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29274048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/pseuds/MissEllaVation
Summary: Our heroes deal with a telly show and the pandemic from a very safe place. They talk; they make out. Typical EllaVation fic.
Relationships: Bono/The Edge (U2)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	The Late Late Show

**Author's Note:**

> I’m terribly sorry to put the pandemic into a fic, but I wanted so much to write about Mature Bono and Edge again, and well, this is where we find ourselves. I’ll understand if you don’t feel like reading this one, but it’s really just a little tale of B and E being together, and safe. And they banter and make out!
> 
> In real life, just before Christmas, they appeared together on RTÉ’s Late Late Show. Because the usual Grafton Street Busk for the homeless couldn’t happen in the actual street this year, it happened on the show instead. And it was just wonderful to watch.
> 
> Here are B & E performing [“Walk On.”](https://youtu.be/jGy4wnFpstU)
> 
> Here are B, E, Glen Hansard, and the whole ensemble performing [“Christmas (Baby Please Come Home.”](https://youtu.be/eUQAP9uV4hg)
> 
> And here is a tiny piece of the [B & E interview](https://youtu.be/lmKKNeHb2xY). Sadly, the whole thing is no longer available on RTÉ’s website.
> 
> In all likelihood, B and E got tested in order to do the show, and they may well have tested and isolated again for a few days before returning to their families. Let’s say they did. :) This is about that brief period of isolation. They’re just really happy to be together.
> 
> Random stuff:
> 
> Ryan/Tubs is Ryan Tubridy, who hosted the show. I’ve read a little bit about him and he might be kind of a jerk(?). Although of course he was nothing but respectful and warm given the nature of this show.
> 
> I do not know a damned thing about wine. When I write about Bono and Edge drinking wine, I google “expensive white wines” (as Bono is apparently allergic to red). Then I choose something from the $200-$500 range, and not the $6,000 range, because no matter how rich you are, that is just BULLSHIT for fermented grape juice.
> 
> Thanks to my friend J.P. for the image of Edge’s hand resting on a sleepy person’s hip.
> 
> The Mothership lyrics are from a [very famous epic](https://youtu.be/sSERB93GYfw) by Parliament-Funkadelic.
> 
> Thanks to spacemonkey and likeamadonna for friendship, support and hilarity. And for their writing. And for just everything.
> 
> 3000-ish words of Bono POV.

You pat my shoulder and call me Darth Vader. Again.

It’s fine. I understand that the sight of me sitting at a table, using my little nebulizer to soothe my throat, is endlessly amusing. I count to four in my head, and right on cue, you begin to hum “The Imperial March.”

I pick up a biro and scrawl a desultory “Luke I am your father” on our free copy of _The Independent._ There. I’ve done my bit, so you kiss the top of my head and walk toward the kitchen. I hear you open the fridge and make little sounds of pleasure as you check out the food we ordered earlier. Then I hear the low, lovely _plook_ of a cork being pulled from a bottle. 

That’s enough nebulization, I think. The dark side of The Force awakens. 

I’m a jumble of conflicting emotions tonight. The show was a delight, and I feel that sincerely. How long has it been since we spent time in a room full of musicians, each one smiling and making a joyful noise? On the other hand, none of us could really go anywhere near each other, so it was strange and surreal and a little sad. I wanted so much to shake hands and pat arms and kiss cheeks. And maybe jump into a few laps. As one does.

And now here I am, as in olden days, happy golden days, etc., holed up in a well-appointed hotel suite with you—and there is really no place I would rather be, but under these circumstances, it is just a little strange. We are surely the luckiest men on earth but I just—

“Bono, stop thinking so loud. You’re wearing me out.”

“Sorry. You know how I get after a show.”

“You sounded perfect. You _looked_ perfect. It’s gonna be amazing on telly, and people will love it. Sit down. Take a breath.”

I obey. The couch is comfy, but my body is under the impression that it’s still mic’d, wired, and floodlit in the massive RTÉ studio, so I must keep bouncing my foot, at minimum. “I guess I’m a little pumped just from being around so many people. So much energy, and no place to put it.”

“I know someplace you could put it, sweetheart.”

“Filthy bastard.”

“I am, in fact, an ol’ dirty bastard.” You set a pair of brimming wine glasses on the coffee table, and sit down beside me. “The only thing that felt strange to me was being so far away from you during the interview.”

“Yes. Fucking unnatural.” I scoot a little closer to you. “That’s better. I hope I didn’t look too much like I was trying to avoid Ryan.”

“You were fine.”

“I guess.” I take a sip of wine. “Mm?”

“That’s a Puligny-Montrachet chardonnay.”

“Oh good, our neighbors.”

“Yes. It’s important to support local businesses.” You laugh. “Actually—and I hate to break this to you—but this vineyard is nowhere near Èze.”

“Is it in Burgundy?”

“Yeah. In that middle bit of France.”

“Oh right, the middle bit, where they keep the grapes. We should be drinking Guinness tonight, anyway.”

“We still can.”

“Maybe later. So, you really didn’t mind me manipulating you into that middle seat?”

“Nope.” You touch my hair lightly, then try to get your fingers in. “My goodness, this is a lot of product.”

“Yeah, they really glammed me up. They could have put a wind machine right in my face and my hair would not have been moved.”

“That’s important.”

“It sure is. But Edge, listen: I hope no one thought I was trying to sacrifice _you_ to save myself.”

“Because…of your hair?”

“No! The seating arrangement. Oh, fuck off, Edge, I can never tell if you’re being serious or not.”

You give me a little shake. “B., you talked so much that if there’s even the tiniest chance you have covid, _you_ would have been the main disease vector on that set. I mean, we’d all be doomed.”

“Excuse me?”

“So many droplets and aerosols, all traceable right to your big mouth.”

“I do _so_ enjoy thinking of myself as nothing but a walking virus pump. Thanks, Edge.”

“Anyway, if you gave Tubs another bout of covid, some people might be inclined to make you a saint.”

“I cannot believe you said that.”

“The man’s a bit of an arsehole.”

“He’s a living legend, The Edge, just like us!”

“Not _just_ like us, Bono."

“I know. But look, the way things are going, I just try to be kind to everyone.”

“You do. You _are._ ” You drape your arm around my shoulders and give me another little shake. “Come here. Come close.”

I set my glass down and turn around so I can press my face to your chest. I shut my eyes, the better to feel the roughness of your black work shirt, then the softness of your white t-shirt against my forehead. I understand all at once how much I’ve missed you. It’s like stepping off a plane in the tropics after months and months of cold, raw winter. There’s the light scent of lavender and (maybe?) sandalwood, and underneath that, the scent of your skin, which is not describable as anything specific. Maybe it’s the sunlight blessing a garden in the hills above L.A., or the courtyard of a Mediterranean villa. You’re a wintry beauty who blossomed in warmer climes, where the sky is full of color and birdsong. 

“Don’t go home after this, okay Edge? Let’s just stay here. The bed is huge and—what the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to get my shoes off without using my hands. Ah, there.” _Thump._ Pause. _Thump._ You lift your left foot into the air, deftly avoiding the table and our bottle and glasses. “This was driving me crazy all night.”

“I cannot believe the fastidious Edge had a hole in his sock on national telly.”

“I’m not a machine, sweetheart.”

“That’s for sure. Look at the state of that toenail.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I jest, I jest. It’s every bit as impeccable as the rest of you, love.”

Your move your hand into my hair again; your fingers work the lacquered mass of it into something that I hope feels more like its natural state. “I’ve really missed you, B.”

I try to push my head deeper into your hand, like a cat. “Ah Edge, the particulars of this pandemic are just so sad, because they keep me from doing my favorite things, most of which involve being all up in people’s faces. But also this. Just…this.” 

“It won’t last forever.”

“Do you really think not? I mean, I know it won’t always be as bad as it is now, but…”

“I know. I know all the buts.”

“You certainly know _some_ butts.”

“Give me a damn kiss, Bono.”

I savor the taste of wine on your lips and tongue. Just the sweetness—before the sweetness turns to sour, as a wise man sang once or twice. It’s not that I’m starved for affection in my life. But you—you are the special one, the mystery. The one no one quite knows about, though they might suspect. The one who understands my heart and soul as well as your hands and mouth understand my body.

You explore my face with your fingers as if you see some kind of compelling road atlas in all the lines and furrows, and I swear I feel a strange, buzzing warmth when you linger on the places where I’ve been smashed and put back together again. All the while, you regard me with that same tolerant, faintly amused smile you’ve had since boyhood.

“Jesus Christ, The Edge, what _are_ you?”

“I’m your Edge.”

“I know, but—”

“Are you hungry?”

I have to burst out laughing. “Are _you_?”

“I mean—it’s just that if we keep doing what we’re doing and get, you know, fully _involved,_ there’s a good possibility that we’ll fall asleep and wake up ravenous at some weird hour and then—”

“And then we’ll eat all the stuff in the kitchen and fall back asleep, and wake up too late, and we won’t feel good and we’ll be as cranky as a pair of toddlers all day tomorrow.”

“Remember when we weren’t like this? Remember when we could play a show, party for six hours, fuck for another six hours—”

“Oh, I remember, Edge.” Hunger be damned, I slide my hand up your inner thigh, and smile at the little hitch in your breathing. “I especially remember the fucking.”

“Me too, sweetheart. But I guess it wasn’t really sustainable.”

“The fucking?”

“No, no, the fucking is _definitely_ sustainable. I just meant that full-throttle, never eating, sleeping or seeing daylight _thing_ we did for a while.”

“Yeah. Well, think of it this way: needing to eat on a regular basis is like a return to childhood.”

“A return to fucking innocence!”

“To fucking innocence—a toast.” I reach out for my glass and drain what’s left in it.

*

Our super-balanced meal is made up of party food—exquisite little hand-made spring rolls and taquitos that we just have to zap for a few seconds to heat up. There’s also a tray of little iced cakes. We _are_ like children tonight. Children with discerning palates.

“Another bottle of wine would go nicely with all this.”

“No Edge, let’s get that Guinness. I’ll call room service.”

But a shy voice on the other end of the phone informs me that the bar is closed, so they can’t pull pints for us. “We do have bottles. Would that be acceptable? If not, I can send someone out to see if—”

“Aren’t you lovely. No, of course bottles are fine.”

The hotel employee who brings us our pints—our bottles, in a basic supermarket six-pack—is slight of build and indeterminate of gender, and is wearing a sleek, crimson mask to match their uniform jacket. You give them an enormous cash tip, then step back the regulation two meters to wish them a good night whilst holding the six-pack by its little cardboard handle. I’m sitting a safe distance away, hoping my smile conveys my appreciation.

“Thank you, sir,” they say, pocketing the money. “Em, I just want to say that it’s so great that both of you are here for the busking. I know this city isn’t always kind to you, but a lot of us really are fans and we appreciate everything you’ve done for Ireland. And it’s just sort of reassuring to see you together.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you to say.” You bow gracefully and almost click your heels. How I love to watch you just…do things.

“Are Adam and Larry okay too?”

“Everyone in the U2 family is fit as a fiddle, and we hope you are too.”

“I am, thank you, Edge—sir—”

“Call me Edge. It’s my name.”

The young person seems to want to linger, and I can’t really blame them. “Well, good night. Oh and if either of you need anything else, call downstairs and ask for Chris. I’m on the overnight shift.”

From across the room, I raise my hands in benediction. “Bless you, young Chris.”

Young Chris turns beet red above their mask, stares for a moment, then slips away.

You shut the door and walk into the kitchen, rummaging around for a bottle-opener. “Oh, I’ve got one on my key ring, actually.”

“You are always prepared, The Edge.” (How I adore you.)

“God, it was nice to hear a kind word from a real Dubliner, wasn’t it?” You sit beside me once again and hand me an open bottle. 

The scent of Guinness is like Proust’s madeleine, filling my head with a lifetime of memories that spin like a whirlwind, then flicker and fade. I take a bubbly gulp. “Ah. Yeah, and it was _after_ you gave them the tip! They didn’t have to say anything at all. Definitely no bullshit from that kid. Maybe things are really changing. I mean, in a _good_ way.”

“They are, Bono. Of course they are.”

You’ve forgotten to remove the mask you put on for the quick transaction at the door. It’s black with a silver spider web design, very cool. You’ve got your bottle raised halfway to your lips before you remember to yank it down.

“Did you cut up one of your t-shirts from 2009 to make that mask, Edge?”

“You think you’re so clever.”

“I _know_ I’m so clever. But only _you_ could look hot as hell in a feckin’ covid mask.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, really, you could attach a veil to it and be sort of a male belly dancer.”

“You’d like that, would you?”

“Yeah. Come on, Edge. Shake it for me.”

You set your Guinness down on the table and stand up. “You sure you can handle this?”

“Try me.”

“Some music would help.”

I provide a clumsy beatbox rhythm that makes you convulse with laughter.

“You’re not even _trying_ , Edge.”

“Okay, okay.”

You execute a surprisingly sensual bump-and-grind routine that lasts about 45 seconds before you start laughing again. It works for me, though. It’s that damned wasp-waisted, leggy body of yours. Should be illegal on a man your age. You still move as if you keep your joints oiled with some kind of magical elixir.

“Can we resume the sustainable fucking now, Mr. The Edge?”

*

You loom over me, naked and godlike in the half-light of the bedroom, and praise my body in sections. 

“I’ve always been in love with your great big shoulders. Since we were kids.” You nuzzle the right one, then the left. “Poor lefty,” you whisper.

“That makes me think of that story…”

“What story, baby?”

“A really sad short story, by J.D. Salinger.”

“That narrows it down.” You kiss my inner elbow as carefully and ardently as if it were a much more intimate body part.

“It was…oh…it was the ‘poor Uncle Wiggly’ story. That one.”

“Is that one particularly sad?”

“It ends on a sad note.” I trace your ear with my fingertips, and you give a gratifying little shiver. “I only thought of it because you said ‘poor lefty’ to me stupid arm.”

“I’ll google it tomorrow.”

“If you want.”

“I do. I want to know what you’re nattering about when I’m trying to make love to you.” You give poor lefty a little more attention. “You are the most beautiful man, B.”

“ _You_ are. Everyone should have a beautiful lover like you, who lingers over elbows and other un-glamorous bits.” But you’re busy, so you don’t answer. Once again, I feel that warm vibration as your mouth travels along my scar, as you kiss my stupid semi-useless fingers. “We should do a cover of ‘Magic Man’ someday. I’ll sing it to you, Edge, right on stage, in front of everyone…down on my knees.”

You laugh quietly into my side, raising goosebumps. “I love your big hands. Give me your hand. Put it here. That’s right...”

“Chonk.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The kids say my hands are ‘chonk.’

“Let’s leave the kids out of this right now.”

“Fair enough.” 

You slip out of my grasp once more, toward the foot of the bed, and I gaze down at you, marveling at the way the light touches the planes of your face—how the light paints you, how it loves you. How it worships your strong, youthful body, how it turns our tangled limbs into a beautiful moonscape. The years fall away. You are you, and I am I, and we are falling in love with each other, in Dublin, in Berlin, in Èze. In Dublin again.

“Love your little belly,” you murmur.

“There’s plenty to love if you’re into it.”

“ _So_ into it, sweetheart…”

You slide up again slowly to kiss my mouth, and our chests press together—an electric confusion of skin, nerve endings, and soft silvery hair. “I’ve missed you, Bono. I’ve missed you so much.”

I run my hands down the length of your back, and rise up to meet the thrust of your hips. “Want you, Edge.”

“Mm. Turn over?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. I want this tonight. I want you.”

“Well then. Anything you want, sweetheart.”

“Nothing in it for you, love?”

“Please. This will be a purely selfless act on my part.”

“Mm. Your _part_.”

You nip my ear. “Teenage eejit.”

We take our time. We have all the time in the world. I try to close my mind to everything but your fingers, and your mouth, warm on the nape of my neck, and your breath close to my ear. 

“Love you.”

“Love you so much, Edge.”

“I loved you from that very first…”

“That very first time I saw you. My beautiful Edge.”

“May I?”

“Please.”

No need to put this into poetic terms: You fuck me. We fuck. And we fuck for a long, slow time. There’s no desperation. We are two people who know each other inside and out, body and soul. And we know that fucking like this—so good, almost intuitive—is a rare thing, never to be taken for granted. 

In fact, _you’re_ the one who becomes poetic under these circumstances, whispering ragged endearments into my hair, into my neck. “My little angel, my song-sparrow. My blue-eyed soul.”

In any other context I would laugh, because I would have to. But you know the effect your voice has on my love-addicted heart. And on other parts of me.

The heat rises around us. I can almost see it. It comes from us, but it seems like a separate thing, tangible, a protective entity, a velvety cocoon made of bits of our souls and of our precious breath. 

How you move me.

Like music.

“Edge, please…”

“What do you need, sweetheart?”

“A little harder. Now.” 

“Anything for you. Anything you want. Tell me.”

“Fuck me…like that, yes. Your hand.”

The poor bed groans. You cry out some explicitly un-poetic words as you fuck me into the ionosphere, and for a breathless moment it seems to me that there are two of you, one above me and one underneath. That image is all it takes. God. All it takes. 

Then the cloud of enveloping warmth drops down on us like summer rain, like hot tears.

After a little while, we find ourselves becalmed in the center of this outrageously large bed. Your warm chest is pressed to my back; your arm encircles me. I feel like a shoestring that has been slowly and expertly un-knotted.

“I’ve missed you so much, Bono.”

“Love. Can we just stay here?”

“We can for a little while, anyway.”

“I guess we have to, don’t we.” I play with the thick hair on your forearm. “But then you’ll be called back to your home planet.”

“My planet needs me, Bono.”

“I know. But take me with you when you go.”

“I will.” You press your lips to my hair, to my ear, to the side of my neck. “I’ll make a reservation for you on the mothership.”

“You know, you’ve never told me anything about the mothership.”

“Sweetheart. What do you want to know?”

“Is it very beautiful?”

“Yes. From the outside, it’s a translucent glowing orb, a startling shade of blue. It reminds me of something…I can’t quite put my finger on.”

“Don’t you dare poke me in the eye.” I bat your hand away. “And so, when you’re inside, flying through space, is there gravity?”

“Yes, because we want all life forms traveling with us to be comfortable. But if you want to experience being weightless, there’s a room for that. Full of soft colorful surfaces, like a bouncy castle for adults.”

“Wow. I’m gonna love meeting your people. Em, is there air, or do we have to wear special suits?”

“No, there’s air, plentiful and clean. You can wear whatever you like.”

“May we run around buck nekkid?”

“If that’s your preference, of course you may. There is no shame on my planet.”

“Lovely. And will I be able to see the sky, or is everything made of metal?”

“Look Bono, my civilization is very advanced, and we take all our fellow life-forms very seriously. We have the ability to adjust reality for each passenger.”

“Wow.”

“So if you’re an earthling, and you want to see blue skies and green trees, and have—I dunno—babbling brooks or ocean waves or something, we can get that for you.”

“And what about love?”

“Love?” You kiss my neck again. Three little kisses. Why three? I will never know. “There is exactly enough love to suit the needs of every individual…plus a little extra at the weekend.”

“It sounds like a perfect ship, The Edge.”

“Bono, it is the most beautiful ship the universe has ever seen.” You move your hand to my hip. A warm and reassuring weight. “May I keep this here all night?”

“I will be very offended if you don’t.”

I'm just about asleep when I have one of those “Oh no, falling!” dreams. Your hand rescues me, steadies me, and I hear your voice as if from a great distance:

 _"Free your mind, and come fly with me  
_ _It's hip on the Mothership, groovin'."_


End file.
